


Reconditioning

by llyn



Series: Blue Milkshake [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pink Haired Hux, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He picks the color himself: pink, to piss off his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconditioning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/gifts).



> This is a prequel to Blue Milkshake for wonderful, more-than-perfect [cosleia](http://cosleia.tumblr.com) who asked for a Hux paralyzed by his insecurities. 
> 
> Also, tbh, this was not originally a part of the Blue Milkshake master plan. I just thought of/wrote it all today. Oh gosh, I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> Warning: There's a creep in this who touches Hux's hair while he thinks he's asleep.

He’d run away. He should’ve been proud of himself. He wasn’t. He’d been taken in off the street by a kind man, a friend. He gave him a roof, a room, a bed of his own. His friend tried to make him smile, tried to guess his favorite foods, and asked for nothing in return. He didn’t ask questions. Hux should’ve been grateful. He only felt resentment, as if he were at the bottom of a well and his friend had dropped a shovel down to him, thinking it would help. He had escaped the Order, his father’s tyranny, but he could not become good. He could not give love. He could not repay the emotional debt owed, growing exponentially every time he ate a pear, slept through the night, wore borrowed clothes, too big, and was told, too kindly, it suits you.

Hux didn’t deserve such things. He waited to be discovered for what he was, for a bright, revealing light to swing suddenly, blindingly toward him, as if he were a rodent rustling in the trash. He had no skills but killing skills, he had no words but those stuffed in his mouth by his superiors. No—they weren’t his superiors anymore. The man in the gutter who clicked his tongue at him as if he were a kitten to be lured closer, the hag at the store who, when introduced to Hux by his friend, scowled and said, “Picked up another stray then, eh?” Even his friend—his only friend, on whom he depended for everything—who watched him eat pears as if hungry himself, watched him sleep, lingering too long in the doorway, watched him slip another too-big shirt over his head, who watched and watched but didn’t touch—these were his new superiors. From them he would learn to become good and weak, because he had no alusteel-toed boot, shiny and black, with which to stomp out their weakness. Not anymore.

No— _he_ was weak. They were strong. They answered only to themselves. Hux answered to his father’s voice in his head, telling him he was worthless.

“Beautiful,” his friend says, drunk one night, waking up Hux when the bed dips under his weight. An unsteady hand combs through his hair. It’s growing out, “I wish you would tell me where you come from.” Hux holds his breath, doesn’t move, waits for his friend’s soft, “Sorry,” and his stumbling footsteps away.

A month goes by. He comes to Hux again, drunk again. Too scared of him to come sober, more proof of Hux’s inherent wickedness. Inapproachable. Cold. Cruel. No. He’s not a soldier now. He can be whatever he wants. He does not have to turn and take his friend into his bed just because he wants Hux, nor because the bed is, technically, his and not Hux’s. Hux belongs to himself, no matter whose pears he eats. He pretends to be asleep. He does not want him.

But the touch is nice. Yes, Hux brings his fingers to his own hair after his friend has left with another guiltily whispered, “Sorry,” having—once again—done nothing but touch his hair, and gently, too. All Hux’s fault, making a good man feel bad. No. People’s problems are their own, just as the galaxy’s problems are its own, and not for Hux to solve. Not anymore.

But the touch is nice, a novel sensation for Hux, who has spent little time indulging himself. He rubs his scalp, eyes falling shut. He takes a handful—his hair just long enough to grab hold of—and pulls. Then moans. And, later, comes, after stroking himself beneath the soft sheets, ears tuned to the hallway outside, wary of footsteps. He knows now that in his freedom he only wants himself.

He develops a habit of vacantly twisting a strand around his finger, or brushing, brushing, brushing it, uncaring how his friend watches from the other side of the room, and when he accidentally thinks of the Order as his home or is pushed aside at the market by a foul-smelling Dug and thinks, viciously, _scum_ , he hides his face behind the curtain of his long, red hair and waits for his heart to stop beating a war drum accompaniment to his father’s voice, over and over— _worthless_.

These ideas are worthless. Hux is not. His friend finds him a job at a caf shop. He is shy but works hard. He likes his uniform—all black—and keeps it neat. Overtime the civilians become customers. His hair comes down to his shoulders and he learns how to toss it from watching the women and the Twi’leks, too. It can be used like a weapon—no—it can be used cleverly, as a harmless trick to draw tips and attention his way. He draws tips and moves out of his friend’s house to a small apartment across from an enormous holosign. The sign flashes First Order propaganda: short, contrived films to inspire enlistment, slogans to inspire loyalty and fear. Yes, they were Hux’s idea. The Empire had had them, too, and he had so admired the elegance of the Empire, once. His friend refuses to take his credits and so Hux sends him a basket of pears. He’s not a bad person.

“We should do something with your hair,” his favorite customer says, a human, a stylist from the spa next door, younger than Hux, a troublemaker, always late to work, always lingering at the counter. He brings Hux trifles. A green stone that glitters, a small statue of a fox, a plant with soft, curling leaves. Hux likes him, too. He reminds him of himself—sharp-eyed—and yet so much about him is frivolous, decorative. He wears jewelry and a scent that makes Hux sneeze at first. He’s not like the men Hux admired in the past.

“Should we?” Hux asks, leaning over the tall counter when beckoned to have his hair petted by the stylist’s confident hands. He rests his head on his arms with a sigh. It feels so good to be touched.

“Don’t get me wrong, your hair’s perfect,” his voice is deep, and his hands rake here and there. Hux’s skin goosebumps. He hears the bells on the door jingle. He doesn’t open his eyes. “But it could be more,” the stylist says.

“More?” Hux drowsily lifts his head, blinking, and smoothes down his ruffled hair as if newly emerged into the world, “More than perfect?” He raises a dubious eyebrow.

The stylist raises one, too, mocking him. Hux has learned to flirt from this man. He learns quickly, thoroughly, and does not forget—that part of him he knows will never change. He’s grateful. “More than perfect, yes,” the stylist says, “Is that something that interests you?”

Hux has a smile that others can’t easily read, “It always has,” he says.

He picks the color himself: pink, to piss off his father.

When the stylist hears this he says, “I love that,” and—weeks later—“I love you,” as they lay tangled together in Hux’s rented room that glows at all hours with the ambient light from the holosign’s propaganda.

Just as Hux opens his mouth to respond—though he is not sure if what he feels is the truth or simply the excitement from hearing this foreign phrase, _I love you_ , mythical as the Jedi, for the first time with his own ears, all for him—the holosign outside emits the sirens of an emergency broadcast, and the flashing lights turn the bedroom white and red white and red. His lover walks to the window in curiosity, while Hux stays put, hiding his head beneath the covers. He’s had enough of war for a lifetime. But a voice begins, heard easily through the muffle of his pillow: “The First Order needs your cooperation in the capture of Armitage Hux, believed to be hiding in this area. If you have any information pertaining to his whereabouts please contact your local Security Bureau. If sighted do not approach.”

Hux joins him at the window just in time to see his lover’s eyes slide down the projected image of Hux—younger, meaner, mouth a hard line—to the size of the bounty on his head. The voice repeats, “The First Order needs your cooperation—”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://nightsofllyn.tumblr.com)


End file.
